


Griffon

by TaraTargaryen



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15354144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTargaryen/pseuds/TaraTargaryen





	Griffon

“Sit down here, pup, and do not move. I will not be long, and I expect to find you here when I return.”

I slumped over the table, gazing up at him dourly, my eyes as wide as I could make them. I was a child, then, a small girl of nine years, and my father’s orders carried that halting tone that shall always be familiar to mischievous daughters.

The arl smiled down at me, and it was a kind smile, and I found that I liked him. “I wouldn’t worry, Bryce. This estate is well-guarded, and the kitchen staff will keep an eye on her for you.”

Father wasn’t convinced. “I’ve got two eyes on her most of the time and she is still more grief than I can deal with on a good day,” he responded gloomily, frowning down at me as the arl chuckled in response. I blinked up at him, as innocently as I could manage. “There will be consequences for misbehaviour, pup,” he warned.

“Yes father.” I agreed, resting my head on my elbow, and gazing off at the wall in what I hoped looked convincingly like despair.

He sighed, and followed the arl out of the room, off to do what noblemen did – _talk_. The cook, I noticed immediately, was a buxom woman, I decided, proud of the thought, having only recently learned from my brother what the word _buxom_ meant.

“Here y’are, my lady,” she dropped a platter before me, humming pleasantly to herself. “I see himself hasn’t come in for supper,” she added, eyes scanning the room, and shook her head. “Still sulking out in the kennels, I bet. Fool boy.” And without explaining any further, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

I had already heard the magic word, though. _Kennel._ I adored dogs, absolutely and wholly loved them, more than horses, or swords, or shoes, or even my brother. I leaned back in my seat, peeking into the kitchen. There was no movement, the cook was well out of eyesight, and there was no sign at all of any other servants or maids about.

I pulled my handkerchief out of the front of my dress – something I had learned to do watching the ladies at court – and wrapped up a little of everything in it. I broke off some bread, took seeds and fruits, and a little of each of the three cheeses, and folded it all up together, and tied it to my belt like a miniature vagabond. My small heart pounding with the thrill of defying Father, my feet hit the floor and I scampered quickly through the kitchen and out the door, into the estate garden.

It was summer, and the heady scent of all the flowers blooming at once made my head spin, but I took a deep breath and carried on. No one important was there to witness a young deviant tip-toe along the cobblestone path, following the sound of dogs barking not too far in the distance.

These weren’t just any dogs, either, they were _marbari_. The great war hounds of Ferelden; the noblest of all companions. I climbed up onto a crate to peer over the door, and a big brown one trotted up immediately. I held out some cheese in my hand, watching the dog sniff it curiously, my eyes as big as saucers, my head filled with daydreams of a giant dog like this, fighting furiously by my side in some epic battle that had never happened.

“What are you doing?” snapped a voice, and I fell straight out of my thoughts and off the crates, landing heavily and uncomfortably on my right arm.

I staggered to my feet, brushing the dirt off my dress, and trying not to wince at the pains shooting up and down my forearm. “Looking at the dogs,” I sneered at the stranger, as though it had been obvious.

His brown eyes narrowed. “You were feeding them.” He accused. “You’re not supposed to do that.”

I felt instantly guilty that I might have caused any harm to one of the beautiful creatures. “Oh. I’m sorry,” I told him, and I meant it. Wanting to make amends, I held out one of the cheeses. “Do you want to share?” I asked.

He looked confused, and I took a moment to study him. His blonde hair was unbrushed, and he looked like he hadn’t changed his clothes in a week, but his eyes were friendly, and his face was nice, I decided eventually. He wasn’t much older than me, either, though he was almost as tall as my brother, older by seven years. Mother kept saying he hadn’t had his growth spurt yet. “Really? You want to share your food with me?”

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “Should I not?” I demanded. Perhaps he was a thief, hiding out in the kennels.

He looked over his shoulder, back towards the house. “I’m supposed to go inside for lunch,” he told me, like we were sharing a secret. “But cook whipped me this morning for tracking mud through the laundry.”

“Can I see?” I asked eagerly, and he looked taken aback, but stretched out his hand nonetheless. I inspected the red welts with interest. “’S’not so bad,” I announced. “My tutor, Aldous, likes to put the stick across my knuckles when I fall asleep in my lessons.”

We sat down together on a thick tuft of grass, and I spread the handkerchief with my offerings out in between us. “I suppose I’m glad she didn’t put it across my ass,” he shrugged, stuffing cheese and bread into his mouth.

It was my turn to look confused. “Ass?” I sounded the word out carefully.

“You know – your bum.” He told me, and we both snickered. I stowed my new word away to teach my brother, or, more likely, scandalise some noble or other later. We munched away happily, pleased, as children often are, to have made an instant new friend.

“So, you like dogs?” he asked eventually.

I nodded vigorously. “ _Love_ them.”

He grinned, face sly. “What about puppies?”

My eyes flicked to the kennel door and back. My lip trembled. “Are there puppies in there?” The words escaped my throat in a hushed whisper.

“Do you want to see them?” he asked.

If I had been the sort of girl who was prone to swoon or faint, I might have. The boy from the kennels took my hand and led me through the door and we crept quietly down the hallway – the place was almost like a stable of sorts, for hounds – until we reached a large, straw-filled crate. My new friend unlatched the whelping box and stepped through into the box, before turning and helping me in after him.

The bitch was massive, lying on her side, panting softly, undisturbed by our presence. And leaping over her back and bouncing around in the straw were her offspring.

I sat back on my heels, the pains in my arm completely gone. Puppies bounced and pounced and growled and squeaked all around me, and I counted twelve. I was positively dizzy with joy.

“Here,” the boy said, picking up a squirming white one and dumping it in my arms. Rather than wriggle away the puppy snuggled up against my neck, licking at my face and making tiny, whining noises. I had obviously died and gone to the Golden City, because this was the closest thing I could possibly imagine.

The boy slumped back against the box, one puppy climbing his shoulder, two wrestling in his lap. I watched them all and played tug with a golden yellow one and a long piece of straw, the white one snuffling against my chest. “Can I stay here forever?” I asked the boy, desperately.

He laughed at me. “I sleep here every night,” he bragged, and I was insanely jealous of him, this boy who slept in a kennel. When the puppies gathered around their mother to feed, we lay on our bellies beside her, watching, side by side. When they were full, they piled up on top of one another, yawning and nipping at each other’s ears. The little white one I had held before curled up beside me head, and when he yawned I could smell his milky puppy breath.

“They’re so warm,” I announced pleasantly, covering my own yawn. I glanced over at the boy, he was asleep, a yellow puppy curled up in his elbow and a brown one on his head. He was drooling a little, and I wrinkled my nose, but not before I closed my eyes. I was a little tired, after all, being dragged around Denerim all day by Father. And he’d be talking with the arl for a while yet… I could take a short nap, nobody would mind.

 

~

 

Arl Eamon rolled up the letters, binding each carefully with a violet ribbon and stowing them away in his desk drawer. “Well,” he sighed. “That takes care of that, for another year at least.”

“You’d think it would be easy to hold such a small nation like Ferelden together, year after year. Some of these banns…” Bryce Cousland shook his head.

“There will always be the threat of unrest amongst the banns.” Eamon replied wisely. “But they’re united under King Cailan for better or worse.”

The teryn sat back in his chair, thoughtful. “Anora still hasn’t given him an heir, though. The line of succession needs to be clear. Decisive. All this squabbling over who goes where and who gets what does the kingdom no good, Eamon.”

Though fifteen years the teryn’s senior, Arl Eamon’s eyes were still quick and sharp, and when they landed on Bryce’s face, he suddenly recalled his days as a young man, being called out of line by his commanding officer for some slight offence or other.

“That’s another matter, if you’ve time to discuss it now,” his voice was low, his tone secretive. Bryce was immediately on guard.

“I made an appointment for Elissa at the armoury, but it’s not far and we’ve got a few hours,” he replied carefully, glancing at the sun out the window. It looked to be about noon.

Eamon nodded, squaring his fingers on his desk. “Four years of marriage and no children. People are beginning to whisper…”

“Such whispers are no concern of mine,” Bryce replied evenly. “Denerim’s obsession with rumour and scandal could rival Orlais.”

The arl laughed heartily. “There, we are in agreement, my friend. Still, though, a childless king does not secure a kingdom, and makes Ferelden look weak to her enemies.”

“What then, is your solution, Arl Eamon?” the teryn’s curiosity was getting the better of him.

The arl changed the subject. “I heard you turned down another offer for your daughter’s hand, this week. How many is that, now? Nine? Ten?”

“Thirteen.” He answered, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Forgive a man his weakness, but I believe my daughter can do better than some backwater Bann’s wife.”

“You plan to make your own arrangement for her, then?”

“I don’t believe any arrangement will be necessary.” Bryce watched Eamon’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “My son, Fergus, will be the general of the king’s army. His duty to the crown will take him too far from Highever to govern effectively. Elissa will become the teryna, when I pass. Can you imagine a Ferelden noble taking to wife a woman with a station and a title greater than his own?” he groaned aloud at the thought.

“A prince wouldn’t.” Eamon was blunt.

Bryce blinked. “Any son born to Cailan and Anora now would be too young to seriously consider being paired with my daughter, whether I wished it so or not.”

The arl rose from his chair and walked to the window, hands folded neatly behind his back. “I’m not talking about Cailan, or any son of his, Teryn Cousland.”

The younger man sat up. “Well?”

Eamon looked back at him over his shoulder. “This will never leave this room.”

Bryce spread his hands. “Of course not.”

“Maric had a second son.”

“Illegitimate, or I’d know about it.” The teryn snorted.

“Of his blood, nonetheless. I know about the Cousland vows, Bryce, sworn to Calenhad all those years ago. Your ancestors swore to Maric’s ancestors, that they would always see a Therein on the throne, for as long as there were Couslands in Ferelden.”

“And what has that to do with my daughter?” he joined Eamon by the window.

“Suppose Anora is barren, and Cailan never sires any bastards of his own. Who should the crown fall to, then?” the older man demanded.

Bryce was thoughtful. “Maric’s bastard, I suppose.”

The arl turned to face him. “Do you think the nobles would accept a bastard king? Would the people?”

“If… If he were supported by House Cousland -”

“If he were supported by Houses Cousland and Guerrin, married to a teryn’s daughter, and legitimised by his brother. And then, should the crown still pass over him – it would land on his son. You could live to see your grandson on the throne, Bryce.”

The teryn leaned out the window, inhaling the fresh air deeply. “And where is this bastard?” he asked, in a voice that sounded very small to him.

Eamon frowned. “Out in the kennel, probably. He’s a dear boy, to be sure, but my wife is not so fond of him. Especially not since Connor was born. Perhaps you’d like to meet him? He could accompany you to Highever as a ward.”

“No. You ask too much of me.” Bryce rejected the proposal immediately. “People would ask too many questions, and I’d like to keep my family out of Denerim’s whispers.”

“Very well. Isolde would like me to have him sent to the Chantry. He’ll be educated and trained as a Templar, most likely, though he won’t enjoy it in the slightest.”

Bryce winced. “Maric’s son… a Templar? Maker…”

Eamon shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“Look,” Bryce returned to the desk, and pulled a fresh piece of parchment from the pile to the centre. “I will agree to your initial proposal, if certain conditions are met.”

The arl returned to his seat and tapped his quill in the inkpot. “Name them.”

“Elissa is nine. How old is the boy?”

“He was ten, a month past.”

Bryce paused, suddenly disbelieving. “This is… not what I intended to do today, you know. Draw up a marriage contract for my daughter.”

“I had doubts myself,” Eamon answered solemnly. “But, having met the young lady herself, this afternoon -” he smiled despite himself. “They’ll either be a match made in paradise, or Ferelden will be razed to the ground.”

“You instil me with such confidence, old friend.” They shared a laugh. “Back to my conditions. Ten years from today’s date, if Cailan remains childless; if he and his court recognise Maric’s second son as a Therein; and if he completes his religious and political studies with the Chantry to the satisfaction of the Reverend Mother -” he paused, taking in a deep breath. “- then so shall House Cousland consent to the marriage between a son of Maric Therein and Lady Elissa Eleanor Cousland.”

There was quiet in the study, while Eamon’s quill scratched away at the parchment.

“Her dowry is ten thousand sovereigns,” Bryce added suddenly, remembering. Eamon glanced up, surprised. “From her Orlesian grandmother. Sour old bat,” he muttered under his breath.

Eamon laid down his quill and sat back, at Bryce read through the contract silently.

“Very well,” he said eventually, taking the quill, and scrawling his signature across the bottom. Eamon signed after him, and then folded the document carefully. The teryn passed his signet ring over and the arl pressed both the Seal of Highever and the Seal of Redcliff into the wax. “I trust this secret will kept between us, alone, until it is required. I ask this not for myself, but for my daughter, Eamon. This is no trivial agreement between friendly parties.”

“Had I such a thought, I would never have asked this of you, or your daughter, Bryce. Indeed, this is not what Maric wanted, either, but we must put the security of Ferelden above all else.” Eamon locked the contract away in a secret safe behind a bookcase.

“I will pray to the Maker that no eyes shall fall on it again,” Bryce added. “Though I fear such prayers may go unheard.”

They walked side-by-side in affable silence down the hallway, when the flustered cook met them in the foyer, dropping into a hurried curtsey. “Beggin’ your pardons, my lord, but the young lady -”

Bryce pushed passed the woman into the dining room where he’d left his daughter only an hour or so ago. Her chair was empty, the table was covered in crumbs, and the girl was nowhere to be seen.

 

~

 

“Elissa Eleanor Cousland!”

Father’s exasperated demand disturbed my tired fog and I blinked awake, startled to find myself looking up at him from some distance. “Hello, Father,” I greeted him, smiling out of habit, despite the angry red flush creeping up his neck.

“Remind me,” he growled. “What it was I said to you about being where I left you when I returned?”

I pouted. “I was very bored, Father. You took so very long.” The white puppy tickled my ear and I laughed.

“So, you wandered out here and took a nap with the kennel boy, did you?”

Arl Eamon’s head popped over the side of the box next to Father’s. “Kennel boy? Oh – Alistair.”

I looked at the boy, who was now beet red and scrambling to get out of the box. I sat up, as dignified as I could possibly be under the circumstances and offered him my hand. He looked at Father through his eyelashes, terrified, before reaching for my arm and helping me step out of the box. I brushed the straw off my skirt. The white puppy whined, scratching at the walls of his first home.

Eamon chuckled. “Marbari choose their masters, Bryce, this one should probably go with the little lady.”

The vein in Father’s temple pulsed. “I don’t know how you intend to raise your own son, Eamon, but in my house, we do not reward deviant behaviour.”

“Father, I just wanted to eat my lunch in the sunshine,” I lied. “I made friends with this boy, he asked me if I wanted to see the puppies. Then we fell asleep. I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Elissa -”

“I didn’t pick all the roses in the garden like I did when we visited White River. I didn’t let anybody’s cat eat all the teacakes like I did in South Reach. Nor did I whack Arl Eamon’s horse with a wooden sword and watch it throw him over a fence like I did to the Arl of Stenhold last year.” I stomped my foot for dramatic effect. “I’ve been on my best behaviour. I swear it to the Maker.”

Arl Eamon was holding back tears of laughter, and the boy’s mouth had dropped open and his eyes had glazed over like Fergus’ when Aldous began to drone on about Ferelden history.

Father relented. “You swear it to the Maker, do you?” he shook his head at me.

“Yes, Father.”

He sighed heavily. “You will turn the hairs on my head grey before their time, pup. Arl Eamon has offered you a gift. Where are your manners?”

I curtsied so deeply and prettily that it would have brought a tear of joy to Mother’s eye. “Thank you, Arl Eamon.”

To my surprise, he bowed. “You are most welcome, my Lady Cousland.” He reached into the whelping box and passed the white puppy to the boy.

He held it, looking for a moment as though he’d never seen one before, until Eamon nudged him gently on the shoulder. He looked down at me, eyes filled with horror, and finally dumped it in my arms. “HereyougomyLadyCousland!” he managed and hid behind the arl.

Father exchanged an odd look with Eamon that I didn’t quite understand, but my new charge licked my elbow and squirmed to get up on my shoulder.

“It’s true what they say about marbari,” Father told me sternly. “They choose their masters. You must prove yourself a worthy mistress, pup.”

I nuzzled the small creature’s cheek with all the love I had. I cradled him like a baby, tickling his belly, and played with his floppy puppy ears. I followed Father and Eamon back in to the foyer, through the kitchen. The kennel boy hovered over my shoulder, but I barely noticed.

“You have white fur, and the griffons in nan’s stories have white feathers. The Grey Wardens would fly on their backs into battle. I’ve always wanted a griffon, but they’re all gone, and you’re much better. You can live in my house and sleep on my bed.” I held him up, and he sneezed.

“What’s his name?” the boy asked.

I grinned. “Griffon!”


End file.
